The Worth of Souls
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Post-movie. Lieutenant Schrank is shot by a young gang member while trying to break up a rumble. This throws the Jets into an awkward and uncomfortable position and they, as well as Krupke and others, wonder whether Schrank will survive.
1. Part 1: And you tried so hard to save me

**West Side Story**

**The Worth of Souls**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! It takes place sometime after the movie, and though it briefly references another fic I did called **_**The Things You Don't Say**_**, that one doesn't have to be read first. As per the 2009 Broadway revival, which, among other things, took the setting out of what looked like the 1950s and stuck it in an even more undefined time period, I felt bold enough to make a passing mention or two to more modern devices in important scenes. As for Krupke's rank, he is canonically called both Officer and Sergeant, which are two distinct ranks, and I have determined that he is really supposed to be a sergeant. Thanks to Ladyamberjo and Viennacantabile for plot help!**

**Part One**

There always had to be a gang.

That was what was going through Lieutenant Schrank's mind as Sergeant Krupke parked the squad car at the playground. The red lights flashed, illuminating the rival street gangs positioned to start their rumble. The teens looked to the unwelcome arrivals, at first resembling deer caught in the headlights before their expressions turned to anger.

Schrank exited the car, slamming the door behind him as he ran towards the playground. How many times had they been through this, with one gang after another? It was always the same, an endless cycle that repeated with each new gang that sprung up in the neighborhood. Many of the gang members never did reform, either, instead moving on to bigger crimes as they got older. Sometimes Schrank wondered if the police accomplished any good in this area at all.

Frankly, he was tired of the whole thing. He had started to wear down years earlier, when he had first begun to realize that he could not get through to these kids. And he had reached the end of his rope long before now. But he pressed on anyway, for reasons even he was unsure of.

Breaking up rumbles was what he hated most of all. There was never any way of knowing for certain what kinds of weapons the gangs would be using, so it was difficult to be prepared. And no matter how often Schrank and Krupke stopped them, someone managed to get hurt or killed sooner or later.

He drew his gun. "Alright, you guys!" he yelled as he ran through the gate. "Break it up!"

One of the gang members turned, firing a gun of his own without a second thought. The thunderclap echoed through the area.

Schrank never had a chance to defend himself. He fell back, pain shooting through his chest. The squad car's lights, still sending beams of red across the playground, bathed the gunman's wide-eyed, frightened features in an eerie hue. The kid dropped the revolver, trembling. He could not have been older than fifteen.

That was the last thing Schrank saw before he collapsed.

He gazed up at the darkened sky, his breathing heavy and racked with agony as he pressed a hand over the wound. Both his vision and his hearing were starting to fail.

"You shot a cop, man!" one of the gang members was yelling.

"He deserved it," a second said.

"I didn't mean to do it!" the shooter cried. "He was just there and I panicked and I . . ."

"Come on, let's get out of here!" exclaimed another.

"You boys get back here!" Krupke shouted after them. But he did not keep his attention on the fleeing gangs. He dropped to his knees at Schrank's side, still in numbed shock.

"Lieutenant? Lieutenant, can you hear me? Say something!"

Somewhere in his mind Schrank was aware of Krupke calling to him and trying to pry his hand away to see the wound. He let his hand fall away, no longer having the strength to hold it in place.

Krupke swore in horror under his breath. "Officer down!" he screamed into his walkie-talkie. "We need an ambulance at the playground _now!_ Repeat, Lieutenant Schrank has been shot!"

The darkness, which had been creeping over Schrank's senses, now fell over him the rest of the way.

xxxx

_It had been a normal day at the 21st Precinct, which for Lieutenant Schrank and Sergeant Krupke meant patrolling their beat, encountering some of Manhattan's notorious street gangs, and looking for the location of a rumble between two of them. As it grew late into the night, they continued to search._

"_It figures," Schrank muttered in disgust as Krupke drove around another block. "The Hawks and the Emeralds both got beaten by the Jets, so they decided to face off against each other instead. They couldn't form a truce; oh no, that'd be asking too much. They'd rather beat each other's brains out. That makes them feel big and brave. But it really just makes them small and stupid."_

_Krupke concurred._

_The Jets had not been as much of a problem ever since the disastrous rumble with the Sharks. It had ended much the same as Schrank had known it would, with death and grief and heartache. But after that hard lesson both gangs had changed. Their new leaders were trying to steer them on different paths, away from the courses they had previously followed. Not all of the members were in agreement to the alteration; some still wanted to fight. That was probably another can of worms that would blow open sometime._

_But for now the main problem was the Hawks and the Emeralds, which had taken the lull in gang activity as a great opportunity to come forward and take center stage._

_Schrank had known that something like that would happen. One fading gang was always replaced by another coming into its own. He had seen it time and time again through the years._

_Krupke glanced at him before steering the squad car around another corner. Schrank was tired of their inability to prevent this from happening. And Krupke was growing fed up as well. It seemed like all they could ever do was pick up whatever pieces were left when it was over. Even when they managed to stop a rumble, the gangs saw to it that another was carried out later._

_In the car, unless discussing a case or what they should do about it, Schrank was usually quiet. It was a sharp contrast to his frequently snapping temper around the gangs. Krupke generally let him have his silence when he wanted it, although at times Krupke tried to engage him in conversation. This was met with varying levels of success, depending on both the topic and Schrank's current mood._

_Right now he was tense, staring out both his window and the windshield as he looked for any sign of the warring gangs. Seeing nothing, he only grew more upset._

"_We'll probably find some bodies in an alley," he growled, "just like last time."_

_Krupke could not deny the possibility. Schrank had been furious when they had discovered the bodies of the Jets' and the Sharks' leaders. He had tried so hard to find out where the rumble would be, even appealing to the gangs themselves, but nothing had worked. And their long sweep of the city had only yielded the location when it had been too late._

_They had been by the playground dozens of times already, but when Krupke steered them past again, something was different. Schrank leaned forward._

"_Stop!" he commanded. "I see them; they're just getting ready to go now."_

_And there they were, just as he had announced—trickling in from both sides and standing defiant and nervous, facing each other. Metal gleamed in their hands._

_Krupke brought the car to a swift halt. Schrank leaped out, drawing his gun. Krupke followed suit._

_The gunshot rang through the night._

xxxx

It did not take long for word of the shooting to reach street gangs throughout the city. Some were surprised, others pleased, and still others not sure what to think. The Jets soon heard as well, and just as with all the rest, opinions were mixed.

"Hey, did you guys hear?" Anybodys exclaimed as she ran up to the rest of the gang. "Lieutenant Schrank and Sergeant Krupke were trying to break up a rumble between the Hawks and the Emeralds and one of them shot Schrank down!"

Ice jerked to attention. "Is he dead?"

Anybodys shrugged. "I don't know. Probably! They're saying it was bad."

A-Rab took the news with his typical, joking approach. If he was bothered, he was not about to make it known—especially since Schrank had been their enemy for so long. "I wonder where he's going to end up?" he said. "I bet they throw him out of Heaven once they get a load of his short-circuit. Can you imagine _him_ part of any Heavenly choir?"

There were a couple of snickers in the dark, but most of the Jets took the news with seriousness.

"I hope he is dead," Action muttered. "He's always meant trouble for us."

"He just does his job," Ice said, crossing his arms. "And anyway, even if you don't care about him, think about what this is going to do to us."

Action frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Don't we have a bad enough rep already?" Ice said. "Now a rival gang member just gunned down a cop. That's never looked on well."

"You're right!" Baby John exclaimed. "This is going to be terrible for us! Maybe some people will even think one of us did it!"

"I wouldn't care if they thought it was me," Action said.

"If they dragged you off to the pen, I bet you'd care!" Anybodys said. "They'd lock you up for life! Or maybe you'd even get the chair!"

Tiger stared thoughtfully at the opposite wall. "You know, it'll be a lot different if we get some other cop on this beat," he said. "Maybe we'll end up with a guy even tougher than Schrank."

"Could that happen?" Baby John wondered.

"It could happen," Ice nodded. "Schrank hasn't been pleasant to deal with, but we could end up with someone a lot worse."

"I hate him," Action muttered.

"My old lady says he used to be different," Anybodys said. "All the gang wars made him bitter or something."

"That's his problem," Action said.

"It's our problem if it involves us," Ice said. "We should try to find out how he's coming along—if he's coming along at all."

"I can find out easy!" Anybodys volunteered.

"Then get to it," Ice said. "Report back when you know something."

Anybodys hurried off.

xxxx

It was easy for the slender tomboy to sneak into the hospital and from there, to hide behind a magazine in the waiting room. Sergeant Krupke was pacing the floor, too upset and caught up in his thoughts to notice. Anybodys frowned. She had never seen the policeman look so distressed. After a moment his phone rang and he stepped near the doors to answer it. Anybodys perked up.

"Hello? . . . No, I don't know anything more yet. He's still in surgery. . . . The doctor didn't have much hope. That kid got him good. The street gangs are probably celebrating tonight." Now he sounded bitter.

Anybodys quietly turned a page of the magazine. She did not like Schrank, but she did not want him to be dead, either. Anyway, Ice had a point that it could look bad for them.

"I tried to find the shooter before I came here. It's just the same story as always—neither gang is talking."

Well, of course, Anybodys thought to herself. As far as the gangs were concerned, even if they were rivals, they had a common enemy in the police. None of them wanted to rat out anyone to the cops.

Krupke hung up moments later. He turned away, staring blankly out the window. A silent prayer, just one of many offered in the last few hours, ran through his mind.

Everything had happened so fast. He was still a bit in shock from what he had witnessed. The kid had just turned and fired. Schrank had stumbled back and fallen, stunned. When Krupke had come to Schrank's aid only seconds later, he had already been fading. Krupke had been afraid that he was dying then and there.

But Lieutenant Schrank was stubborn. Even with the bullet so dangerously close to his heart, and with the concerning amount of blood he had lost, he was still fighting to stay alive.

It was ironic, that after all the years Schrank had put in trying desperately to curb the street gang problem in the city, one of those punks would end up shooting him down. He had never before been seriously injured while trying to break up a rumble.

Well, at least not physically. Krupke had been with the 21st Precinct for quite some time. He had heard whispers of how Schrank had started out years ago, optimistic and confident that he could find a way to help fix the street gang problem on his beat. It was strange to think about. That Schrank was light-years apart from Krupke's cynical, world-weary partner. Krupke had to wonder what it would have been like, to have known him before the struggle against the gangs had taken its toll.

Maybe that would have been too depressing. Then he would have also witnessed Schrank's descent into embittered helplessness. Schrank was a good person, but he was not well-liked due to his bursts of blunt, frustrated, and angry comments. He himself was not proud of many of the things he spat in his venom and fear.

He and Krupke had both been counseled to try to understand the gang members' points-of-view, but that was easier said than done. They were disgusted and unable to grasp what could possibly possess the teens to kill each other over the use of public streets.

Krupke frowned. When the shock wore off more, he would probably be outright angry over what had happened tonight. Right now it still seemed too unreal, like a bad, surreal dream.

He glanced around the room. He was the only one there, but that was not a surprise. The other police at the precinct were already tied up. And Schrank did not have any living family—at least, not that Krupke knew about.

. . . Wait a minute.

He was not the only one here after all. Some kid was darting for the doors. And she looked familiar.

He ran over, snatching the teen's arm before the escape could be completed. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. His gruff voice blended with her high-pitched cry of "Let me go!" but he held fast. "Answer me!"

Anybodys looked up, glowering at him. "I just came in for a few minutes to check something," she said, defensive. "And now I don't need to be here anymore, so I'm going." She jerked her arm free.

Krupke was not satisfied. "You know the Lieutenant was shot tonight, don't you?" he said.

"Word's been going around the streets, yeah," Anybodys retorted.

"Do you know who did it?" Krupke's eyes bored into hers, as though he could command the answer to come forth by reading her mind.

"No!" Anybodys snapped. "And that's the truth. Ice is worried about it. Says it'll make us look bad."

"He's right." Krupke's hands went to his hips. "If I find out you're sheltering the kid who did this, I'll drag the whole bunch of you in to jail."

"You and Schrank are like peas in a pod," Anybodys said as she headed for the doors. "You learned a lot from him on how to handle us juvies, didn't you?"

"Oh, go on," Krupke growled, gesturing for her to make her exit. If she honestly did not know anything, then he was not in any mood to deal with her tonight.

"Sergeant Krupke?"

He turned at the sound of the voice. The doctor was standing at the doorway of the waiting room, tiredly pulling down the mask that had covered his nose and mouth. His weariness, and the blood splattered over his surgical gown, served to make Krupke uneasy as he went over. Forgotten now, Anybodys lingered, curious.

"What's going on, Doctor?" Krupke asked. "How is he?"

The physician sighed. "That bullet almost killed him more than once tonight," he said. "He lost a lot of blood, so much that we had to give him a transfusion. And during the operation his heart stopped."

Krupke froze. "Is he . . . ?"

In the doorway, Anybodys stared with wide eyes.

The doctor managed a slight smile. "I said it _almost_ killed him," he said. "We were able to get him revived." He gestured to the hall behind him. "He's in a room now, but his condition is still grave."

"Do you think he'll make it?" Krupke worried.

"I couldn't say," the physician replied. He paused. "But I'll say this for him—he's stubborn."

"He's that, alright," Krupke agreed.

"That may be his saving grace. He doesn't want to die."

Anybodys decided she had heard enough. She turned, slipping through the doors and outside.


	2. Part 2: Each Restless Heart

**Notes: One of the most interesting things about this story is how it's been thoroughly necessary to try to develop Krupke's personality more, since he doesn't have a great deal of personality in canon.**

**Part Two**

_It was dark, but not quiet. Amid the nothingness the gunshot rang out again and again—not just once—and there were yells and screams—incoherent at first but then dissolving into distinct exclamations._

"_I didn't mean to do it!"_

"_Come on, let's get out of here!"_

"_Lieutenant, can you hear me?"_

_Just as before, he was helpless to respond in any way. He fell back into oblivion's thick blanket._

_There were stretches where he did not hear anything at all. Sometimes he was completely unconscious, not thinking or feeling. But other times he could think. It wasn't really in any sort of deliberate process, but a steady, involuntary stream._

_He had been shot. His chest was still hurting. It was hurting worse than before. Something new was digging into it._

_There were snippets of voices, nothing clear enough to understand. They faded in and out of the fog, along with the sensation of something else being in the wound._

_Everything was silent for some time. Then the pain was back, pain more intense and excruciating than even before. His heart was beating in his ears. Previously he had felt detached from whatever was happening, but this was too powerful. He was screaming, but without a voice._

_Some crazy machine was going wild, beeping erratically and then switching to a monotonous, steady note. People were yelling again, frantic._

"_We're losing him! The bullet's just too close to his heart!"_

_Losing him? Was this it—was he dying? Something was pulling him, wanting him to go with it. Maybe he should just give in, just let it take him. . . ._

_No, he did not want to surrender. He did not want to die. He was not going to **die. . . .**_

_The pain started anew, different this time. It flooded his veins and slammed into his chest with a powerful, electric force. Against his will, he slipped under._

_xxxx_

_. . . It was strange, to feel again, to hear again. When he had faded that last time he had not known what was going to happen to him. But once more there were voices—the one from the foggy part of his memories and another, one he knew well. . . ._

_Krupke. . . ._

"_So he's still not out of danger then?"_

"_No, I'm afraid not. But it's definitely encouraging that he's alive. I wasn't sure that we'd be able to revive him."_

"_Thanks, Doctor."_

_Footsteps clicked across the floor. A door opened and closed. Only one person had left; someone had decided to stay._

"_Lieutenant?"_

_It was Krupke._

"_I'm glad you're still hanging in there. I knew you wouldn't let that bullet beat you if you could help it._

"_I'm sorry this happened in the first place. I don't know . . . I feel like I should've been able to see it coming and get you out of the way. But I really know that there wasn't time for either of us to do anything about it. That kid just fired too fast._

"_We're still looking for him; his buddies must be hiding him somewhere. We'll get him, though. I can promise you that."_

_There was a long pause. "It feels wrong, to see you laid up like this. . . ." Krupke walked around the room, nervous, pacing. "I don't think I ever saw you sick once since we met. You always just kept going. I've admired that about you."_

_Schrank wanted to answer something, but he did not have the strength to wake up, let alone to reply. Before long he slipped completely out of awareness again._

xxxx

Ice came to attention as soon as Anybodys approached their location. The others had been growing increasingly restless for some time; it was all Ice could do to keep them from running out and doing something reckless and stupid.

This incident had been throwing street gangs all over Manhattan into an uproar. And for the Jets, who were well-known for their run-ins with Lieutenant Schrank, it was even worse. Ice, though outwardly still cool and collected, really wanted to see some concrete information come in that would vindicate them.

"Well?" he asked.

"Schrank's still alive, but it doesn't look good," Anybodys reported, coming to a halt. "Krupke's been there a long time. I've never seen him upset like he's been tonight. I guess he really cares about the old guy."

"Do they know yet who did it?" Ice wanted to know.

"No. Krupke was really sore about that."

Ice nodded. "Okay. Keep track of what's going on," he directed.

Anybodys, thrilled to have such an important assignment, beamed.

xxxx

Schrank continued to live up to his reputation of being stubborn. Against the odds he managed to survive through the night and into the morning. Though Krupke had to return to work, he checked in when possible.

The Jets, also, kept themselves informed of Schrank's condition, mostly thanks to Anybodys' continuing investigation. They had already received more than their fair share of queries as to whether one of them had fired the gun. They always spoke the truth and denied it, although the manner in which they did so varied from person to person.

The actual shooter's identity remained a mystery. Neither the police nor the other street gangs had been able to learn anything about the kid. The weapon was missing too, so either he or another gang member had taken it back or someone had tossed it into some unknown place.

The incident had caused another outcry against the gang violence in Manhattan. But whether or not anything lasting would be done about it was another matter. The way Schrank had seen it in the past, any and all attempts were short-lived. There was too little funding and a level of cooperation to match.

xxxx

Doc always arrived at the candy store in plenty of time to get out the morning newspapers and make other preparations before the patrons started trickling in. This day was no exception. He was unlocking the door before it was light.

The papers had already been delivered and were ready and waiting to be placed on the newsstand. He stared as he lifted the first stack to carry inside. The headline on the top paper gave him a sharp jolt.

_Warring Street Gangs Leave Police Lieutenant Dead_

He quickly ushered the papers to the counter. Undoing the ties, he skimmed over the article. According to the reporter, Lieutenant Schrank had been shot and killed by an unidentified member of one of the gangs when he had tried to stop a rumble. Police were still looking for the killer and the murder weapon.

Doc straightened. Schrank was not one of his favorite people, but Doc had been around for years, manning the candy store that the Jets, and other street gangs before them, flocked to as a hangout. And during that time he had seen at least some of how Schrank had changed. Schrank's pleasant facades had not always been facades. He had once been quite genuinely friendly and amiable.

For the most part the changes had been a gradual process through the long years—but there had also been some things that had made more abrupt alterations to his personality. When all was said and done, Schrank had become a bitter and tired and perhaps even desperate man.

Doc sighed. Despite his dislike of the other, he never would have wanted Schrank to be killed. It had not really sunk in yet, he supposed, but when it did it was going to seem strange to realize that Schrank would never be around again. There were times when Doc still fancied that Tony was there, working in the backroom or wiping down the counter, before reality slapped him in the face and reminded him that such a thing was impossible.

He turned back to get the next stack. But he paused again when he reached it. The headline there was different. What was going on?

_Warring Street Gangs Leave Police Lieutenant Close to Death_

This version claimed that Schrank was still alive, but that he had little chance of pulling through. Which was correct?

Doc cut the ties around the second stack and lifted the top papers of both. It was the second version underneath, on each side. Digging further revealed more of the same. It looked like there was only the one copy of the version that had stunned him at first. Most likely it was a premature, incorrect story and had been pulled after only a few copies. But somehow one of them had found its way into his shipment.

He set the erroneous paper aside. If Schrank were still alive, then Doc would not count him out yet. Schrank would never go down easily if he had any say in the matter. And Doc was betting that, for him to be hanging on when there was not much hope, he had quite a big say.

xxxx

Maria stood on the roof of her apartment building, staring at the red sun rising through the clouds. She had learned of the shooting through her friends, still girlfriends of the Sharks. It had bothered her more than she had thought it would. It was not just that she was upset over more gang violence; she was upset over Lieutenant Schrank specifically being shot down.

Maybe it was because of when he had given her a ride home during a violent storm. He had been gruff, but he had shown kindness that she had not expected to see. After that, she felt that she had come to understand him a bit better.

Among other things, he had mentioned the problems between the Hawks and the Emeralds. And somehow it seemed chilling, that now someone in one of those gangs had shot him in cold blood. No one knew if he was even going to live.

And it _had_ to happen in the playground, too—a spot that had already seen the blood of Maria's beloved Tony. The gangs seemed determined to violate the innocence of that place.

She sighed sadly. When would it all stop? How many people would have to die before all gangs everywhere would throw away their weapons and their fear and anger and hatred?

Would that ever happen at all?

xxxx

Sergeant Krupke ran his hand over his eyes as he slumped back at his desk. To say he was exhausted would be a huge understatement. All in all, between chasing after the shooter and waiting at the hospital for news of Lieutenant Schrank's condition, he had gotten maybe one hour of sleep—and even that was probably an exaggeration. He was frighteningly close to falling asleep here at work. Yet on the other hand, he felt like he _couldn't_ go to sleep. He was too emotionally charged and worried.

Over and over in his mind he heard the gunshot and saw Schrank fall. And he could not stop asking himself, even though he knew the answer already, whether he could have done something to prevent what had happened. It was the same question he and Schrank wondered after every rumble. But though there was that sense of taking it personally and feeling the blow when the gang members disregarded their warnings and ended up getting hurt or killed, it had never before hit so close to home. This time it really was personal.

Krupke had been assigned to Lieutenant Schrank shortly after his transfer to Manhattan from the Bronx. The Captain had believed they would work well together. And he had been right—their personalities had fit very nicely. They had been partners for so long by now that Krupke could not imagine working with anyone else on a permanent basis.

He was not sure how Schrank felt about him, but for his part he had come to think of Schrank as more than a police partner. Even though it was strange to think about, especially when viewing their relationship with an objectionable eye, he could not deny it. For some time now, he had thought of Schrank as a friend.

As for Schrank's part, did he even have anyone he thought of as a friend? He associated with the others at the precinct, and he had acquaintances outside of police work, but both from what Krupke had seen and heard they were little more than people Schrank went with for an occasional dinner or drink. He did not open up to them nor hang around them more than was polite.

Maybe, for all Krupke knew, he himself was just another in that category. Schrank sometimes invited him to dinner or a drink too. Despite the fact that Schrank was more likely to be invited by the others he knew rather than to do the inviting, he had also invited them at times. So Krupke was not the only one to whom Schrank had shown that level of attention.

But there were still differences, however subtle. Schrank was more relaxed around Krupke, at least as much as Schrank could relax at all. And Krupke did not only have his own observations on that point; those at the 21st Precinct who had known Schrank longer had talked about it as well. They had said it to Krupke's face and also while gathered, gossiping, around the water cooler.

Some said that if Schrank had anyone he considered a friend, it would have to be Krupke. Others disagreed, saying that the two only had a police partnership and nothing more. But they all seemed to agree that no matter what Schrank's feelings on Krupke were, the Captain had matched them well.

And really, whether or not they were friends was neither here nor there. The facts remained that Schrank had been shot and Krupke felt horrible about having watched it happen.

"Sergeant?"

He looked up, startled back to the present. Through bleary eyes he could somehow make out Officer Bradley standing by the desk, concerned.

"Has there been any more news?" Bradley asked.

Krupke sighed. "No," he said.

Bradley shifted, uncomfortable and nervous. "When you were there and saw him, how did he seem to be?" he finally voiced.

Krupke shook his head. "He was still critical," he said. "He looked pretty sick. He hadn't woke up at all when I left."

"Do you think he'll make it?"

"I don't know," Krupke answered honestly.

Bradley clenched a fist. "I wish we could catch who did this to him, at least," he said.

Krupke certainly wished that as well. Before attempting to get any sleep he had driven around Manhattan again, hoping against hope that he would see the kid. He would recognize the punk if he did, he was sure. But the teen had hidden himself well; there had been no sign of him.

Krupke fought the pull of sleep for quite some time after that. He looked through files in search of any information about the shooter, took phone calls about possible leads, and scribbled down tips. But in spite of his best efforts, he finally slumped back in his chair. He was operating through a fog. Maybe if he just rested his eyes for a few minutes . . . only a few minutes. . . .

"Sergeant?"

Krupke started awake, nearly falling out of his chair. To his horror, Captain Black was standing over him. Concern was written on the older man's features, but this was still an uncomfortable position to be caught in.

"S-sir?" Krupke stammered.

"How long have you been up, Krupke?" the Captain queried.

Krupke struggled to sit up straight and adjust his hat to the proper position—neither of which seemed to want to happen with his anxious fumbling. "I . . . I'm not sure, sir," he said truthfully.

"You're no good to anyone in this state," Captain Black told him. "Go home and get some proper rest."

"I'll be alright, sir," Krupke hurried to say. "I just dozed for a minute there."

"Go _home,_ Sergeant," the Captain stressed. "That's an order."

"Yes, sir!" Krupke leaped up, quickly setting his papers and folders aright before moving towards the door. Though he could feel many eyes watching him, he just kept going and did not try to look.

"Sarge?"

He turned at the voice. Officer Keaton was looking to him.

"Hang in there," he said. "The Lieutenant will be okay."

Krupke nodded. He sure hoped so. "Thanks," he said as he pushed open the door and went out.

xxxx

Krupke was certainly exhausted. He barely remembered driving home or getting out of his uniform. And he certainly did not recall walking up to bed. He was the epitome of a sleep-deprived zombie. He was asleep practically before he even laid down.

For a while the images from the past few hours swept over him, taunting and disturbing him. But then they faded, blanketed by a heavy fog and unremembered when he awoke.

That happened when the phone suddenly, piercingly jangled. He started back to awareness, groping for the telephone as his hat slipped over his eyes.

His hat?

That was why he did not remember getting out of his uniform; he actually hadn't done it.

"Hello?" he mumbled into the receiver as he lifted it.

"Sergeant Krupke?"

He recognized the doctor's voice. Instantly he was sitting up in bed. "Yeah," he said. "What is it?"

"You said to let you know as soon as anything changed," the physician said. "Lieutenant Schrank's condition seems to be stabilizing. He's been stirring; he may be trying to fight his way back to consciousness."

"I'll be right there," Krupke promised.

xxxx

Schrank was semi-conscious when Krupke arrived. His eyes were open, but they were glassy and unfocused. He did not turn to look when the door creaked.

"Sometimes it takes a while for someone to fully come to," the doctor told Krupke from the doorway. "They wake up in stages, falling unconscious again in between."

Krupke nodded. "But even if he doesn't know we're here, it's an improvement, isn't it?" He pushed the door open more, advancing into the room.

"I hope so," the physician said. He eased himself out, shutting the door after him.

Krupke approached the bed. "Lieutenant?" he ventured. "It's me. Can you hear me?"

At first Schrank gave no indication that he heard at all. But then he turned, blinking glazed eyes at his partner. "Krupke . . ." he mumbled.

Krupke perked up. "That's right," he said. "Do you . . . remember what happened?"

"Some kid got me." Schrank turned away, tiredly shutting his eyes. "I couldn't stop it. . . ."

"Nobody could've," Krupke said.

"Yeah, sure." Schrank sighed. In a moment his breathing deepened as he slipped back to sleep.

Krupke sighed too. He straightened, relieved that Schrank had regained consciousness, if only for a moment. Something about Schrank's words and tone of voice bothered him, but he pushed that aside. Surely it was just in his imagination.

"You'll be okay," he decided, "like the doctor said."


	3. Part 3: If everyone cared

**Notes: I couldn't resist throwing in a sly reference to an old cop show that's quickly become a favorite of mine. Kudos to anyone who catches it!**

**Part Three**

The next day Krupke went out on patrol with Officer Bradley. He had managed to get a better amount of sleep the past night, but Captain Black had thought it would be good if Krupke had some company and something else to put his mind to besides looking for the kid who had shot Schrank. Krupke often did take the rookies out on patrol as part of their training, so it was not a new occurrence.

After a few blocks of driving mostly in silence, Bradley glanced to the Sergeant. "Captain Black said that Lieutenant Schrank is improving," he said, hopeful.

Krupke started out of his thoughts. "Yeah, that's right," he said. "He's been waking up off and on."

Bradley hesitated. "Does he . . . remember things?" he asked at last.

Krupke raised an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't he?"

"Oh, I don't know. . . . I heard that sometimes a bad trauma can make people forget." Bradley kept his eyes on the road as they turned the corner.

"He remembers," Krupke said. "He asked me about the kid who shot him."

"Does he remember anything about the kid that could help us find him?" Bradley queried, hopeful.

"If he did, he didn't say," Krupke said. "And I'm sure he would've said." He glanced at the young officer. "Neither of us got a good look at that punk."

Bradley nodded and sighed. "I wish I'd been there and could've helped," he said. "I could have chased the gang down and got the kid."

"Maybe," Krupke said. "You might've got shot too; they all had guns." And now every single weapon was missing. They had managed to round up a lot of the members of the Hawks and the Emeralds and arrested them for the rumble, but the great majority of them had since been bailed out—and absolutely none of them were talking.

"The Lieutenant used to lobby for more to be done about the gangs," Bradley said. "He hasn't in a long time. Why?"

Krupke shook his head. "There's a lot of reasons," he said. "No one listens. They've told him there's just not enough funds. And . . . I'm not sure he even believes anything can be done anymore."

Bradley frowned, nodding. "I've heard stories around the station," he said. "They say the Lieutenant used to try to mentor some of the kids."

"That was a long time ago," Krupke said. "I wasn't working with him then; I was over at the 53rd Precinct in the Bronx. But I heard about that too, when I came here. He never has liked to talk about it."

"I wonder what he was like back then," Bradley said.

_A lot different, that's for sure,_ Krupke thought to himself. He did not offer anything more aloud. It was Schrank's personal business and Krupke did not feel comfortable gossiping about it. Especially since one of the only other things he knew concerning that time was that the main kid Schrank had mentored had turned around and gone back to the gang after Schrank had thought he had listened and moved to the straight and narrow path of life.

That would have certainly contributed to Schrank's cynical personality. Krupke could not help wondering just how much pain Schrank kept locked behind his venomous outbursts and his angry eyes. Every now and then the fire parted, allowing a small glimpse. But that was probably all that Krupke would ever see for certain. Schrank did not seem willing to let him or anyone else in that far.

Krupke admittedly had to wonder if there would ever come a time when someone would be that trusted.

"Does he ever talk with you about any part of his life then at all?" Bradley broke into his thoughts, oddly echoing the subject Krupke had just been pondering.

"No," Krupke answered.

"So he's a closed book then," Bradley said. "I wonder if he's lonely."

Krupke really could not say. Schrank did not seem to be a great deal fond of people and tended to avoid them when possible, despite the occasional instance of going out with others for dinner or a drink. But, strange as it seemed to him, maybe there was some part of Schrank that wanted human companionship. Maybe that was why he agreed to go to the dinners and sometimes extended invitations himself.

When Krupke returned Bradley to the station later that day, he determined to head back to the hospital for another check-in. With Schrank waking up now and then, maybe soon he would regain full and lasting consciousness. Krupke certainly hoped so.

xxxx

Ice watched with narrowed eyes as the other Jets made their way back to the alley. He had arrived first and had been waiting for the last few moments. From his comrades' slumped shoulders and weary faces, they had not had any luck on their recent mission. But he asked anyway. "Well?"

"Nothing, just nothing," Action said in disgusted frustration.

"All the gangs are clammed up, even to us," Tiger added.

"It's like we have a new strain of plague!" A-Rab exclaimed. He made a mock gesture of brushing germs off his jacket.

"And I know why," Action snarled. "That's what's worst of all. We're getting branded as a bunch of Schrank lovers! They don't believe us about why we're asking who shot him." He kicked an empty tin can across the alley, where it smacked into a brick wall.

"We don't like Schrank any more than we ever did," Ice said, cool and collected as always.

"We just don't want this to get pinned on us!" Anybodys chimed in.

He looked to her. "What's the latest?"

She shrugged. "He ain't really woke up yet. That's all I know. Krupke's been in and out of the hospital. I heard him talking to Officer Bradley earlier." She paused. "But he acted like he thought Schrank was gonna live."

"Keep on it," Ice told her. He looked to the others. "Who've you questioned so far?"

"We've been all over," Action said. "We even got hold of some of the Emeralds and the Hawks. None of them will say a _word!_"

Ice was undaunted. "Alright. If they won't talk, try just spying on them for a while. Maybe eventually one of them will lead you to the shooter."

"I don't like this," Action said. "How long are we going to keep this up?"

"As long as we have to," Ice said. He met Action's fiery gaze with his own, frosty eyes.

At last Action looked away—still unhappy, but accepting of Ice's position as leader.

Ice leaned back. Action's hatred of Schrank was all too obvious. Ice had very little doubt that if it weren't for the problem of the Jets' image being blackened because of this, Action would be all for helping to shield the culprit, whoever he was. In fact, perhaps Action at least partially felt that way in spite of that problem.

By contrast, A-Rab's jokes might not necessarily be his true feelings on the matter. There were occasional flashes in his eyes that indicated otherwise. Deep down, though he would never say it, he might actually be bothered by what had happened to Schrank.

Baby John definitely was. He did not like violence, probably somewhat because he himself was often singled out as a weak link and beat up on. And he had been even more sensitive since the disastrous rumble with the Sharks.

The other Jets' reactions ranged anywhere from close to Action's to close to Baby John's, and everywhere else in between.

As for Ice himself, he was mostly concerned with how what had happened would affect the Jets. For him, as he had said, Schrank was just doing his job when he tried to get them off the streets. Ice did not have any particularly hard feelings towards Schrank in specific. He disliked some of Schrank's methods, but he had been around plenty of people who could not restrain their tempers. Action was a prime example, although the way his anger came out was different than it was for Schrank.

xxxx

Schrank forced his eyes open, blankly gazing at the fuzzy shape of the ceiling high above him. Machines were beeping around him, annoying with their incessant noise. And his chest was hurting. Well, that was an understatement.

So, he was alive.

That was surprising in a way. He had half-expected to wake up with his soul being judged for whatever afterlife he was bound. It almost seemed like he had died at one point. But he had resisted.

He also seemed to vaguely recall Krupke coming in and talking to him, more than once. That had probably happened too; Krupke had acted upset when he had been shot, from what he remembered.

Krupke always had been loyal. He never seemed to think that Schrank would ever be anything different than he was or that he would change. He accepted Schrank, faults and all—and that, perhaps, was why Schrank felt comfortable and relaxed around him.

Of course, neither of them had been able to figure out what to do with the street gang problem. Krupke was as frustrated and disgusted over it as Schrank, although he was nowhere as bitter and jaded. He had not set out to devote himself to solving the trouble. Nor had he spent the long years on it that Schrank had done.

Even though Schrank did not really want it to happen, he thought a lot about the past. He saw in quite a few of today's kids what he had seen in the punks of years ago. And that, more often than not, led to remembering the ones he had tried to mentor.

He was still not sure why he had ever been stupid enough to think that such a program would work for him. Actually, why had he been stupid enough to be optimistic about helping the street gangs in the first place? He had felt that he had all the answers and that he knew exactly how he could reach those troubled souls. Only idiots were that confident. The power of positive thinking had never helped stop one rumble or kept one teenage moron from knifing or shooting another. And he had soon discovered that.

By the time he had gotten around to trying to mentor some of the kids his optimism had already been largely shot to Hell. But when he had seen some results he had started to change, to believe that maybe miracles really did happen. For a while he had been getting through. And then Jimmy had slid right back. He had left a note telling Schrank that the gang was his family and he was not going to leave them after all.

The kid had been killed the next time the gang had rumbled.

The others who had been listening at first fell into drinking and drugs and what-have-you. There was probably a hooker somewhere among them. And he knew for a fact that a couple were in rehabilitation centers and a couple more were on the streets and one or two others had dropped off the face of the planet.

Schrank sighed. He was tired. It was not something a normal rest could cure; he was tired of everything. It had been coming for a long time. Being shot had only sealed it—he had not even been able to prevent that.

There was a possible decision that he had been idly turning over in his mind before this had ever happened. He had considered it off and on for quite some time, though he had never spoken of it nor seriously decided to follow through. Now his mind was made up; he was going to go through with it.

"Lieutenant?"

He looked to the side of the bed. Krupke was standing there looking awkward, his hat in his hands. Schrank had not even realized Krupke was there. He must have looked surprised, as Krupke hurried to explain. "I was checking to see how you're doing. You woke up a couple of times before, but it didn't last."

Schrank frowned. He did not remember that at all. "How long's it been?" he mumbled. His throat was dry and scratchy. He would have to see about getting a drink.

"A couple of days," Krupke told him.

"Did you . . . get the kid?"

Krupke shook his head. "He got away," he said, frustrated. "I can't find any leads."

"That figures." Schrank looked off at the opposite wall.

Krupke shifted. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, I guess. . . . All things considered." Schrank still didn't meet his partner's eyes.

"I'll have the doctor come check you over," Krupke said, starting for the door. "And I need to call headquarters and let them know you're awake. They've all been worried."

"Krupke." Schrank faced him now. "I'm quitting."

Krupke stopped cold. He looked back, shocked. "What?"

"I'm quitting the force." Schrank looked away. "I've had enough of those smart-alecks. They finally ran me down the rest of the way."

Krupke stared at him, his eyes wide. "Are you sure?" he exclaimed. "Maybe . . . maybe it's just the drugs talking. Maybe you'll feel different when you start to heal up."

"Nah. It's been coming to this for a while. We both know it." Schrank sighed. "Neither of us can get through those kids' thick skulls. And I've been trying for over twenty years. You've seen what a wreck it's made out of me."

Krupke frowned, not knowing what to say. ". . . I'll go get the doctor," he said at last.

Schrank watched him go. Schrank had said what was on his mind, but he felt no peace now that it was out. Actually, he didn't feel much of anything other than the pain in his chest. He leaned into the pillows, staring at the ceiling again.

xxxx

Recovery was a headache. It went faster than the doctors—or Schrank himself—thought it would; within a few days he was able to start getting up for short periods of time. The necessary physical therapy would take several weeks, which he was not pleased about at all. And since he lived alone, the doctors did not feel it wise for him to leave the hospital after the daily sessions, at least not yet. None of them would sign a release form.

It was not long before Schrank was ungodly restless. He wanted something to _do,_ something other than playing Bingo or listening to senile old men prattle on about their exploits.

"Bring me something, anything," he almost begged of Krupke. "Even casefiles; I don't care."

Krupke was uncertain if he should comply. Reading casefiles might only make Schrank upset. But he was so antsy that Krupke agreed at last.

Perhaps, secretly, he hoped it would make Schrank change his mind about leaving. Schrank had said nothing more about it and Krupke had not asked. Maybe it really had been said as a result of the drugs and Schrank remembered none of it now.

But when he brought the files, Krupke learned different.

"Soon this won't be my problem anymore," Schrank muttered as he accepted the folders and opened the one on top.

Krupke swallowed hard. ". . . So you really did mean it," he said.

Schrank glanced up. "You thought I didn't?"

Krupke shrugged. "I kind of thought . . ."

"I meant it then and I mean it now. My feelings haven't changed." Schrank gave a tired sigh. "Look at this—the kid was sixteen and sent to Death Row."

"Maybe you shouldn't be reading that stuff," Krupke said in concern.

Schrank waved a dismissive hand. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I think about it when I'm not reading about it. What's the difference?"

"I guess there isn't one," Krupke admitted.

He fell silent. ". . . I wish you weren't leaving," he said then.

"Yeah, I know—it's not fair of me to back out and leave you and the rest with the load." Schrank leaned back, rubbing his eyes. "I just don't know what to do anymore, Krupke. I stopped knowing a long time ago. They should bring in someone who's actually had some luck with these hooligans, see if he can work his magic here too."

"Bringing in someone else won't be the same," Krupke said. "And what will you even do when you get out of here, if you don't come back? You've always worked in law enforcement."

"I'll figure something out," Schrank said.

Krupke clenched a fist. He had not been going to say this, but the more they talked, the more he was starting to feel it was important. He rarely, if ever, had spoken back to Schrank, his superior in rank. This was going to have to be an exception.

". . . You know, a lot of the guys at the precinct look up to you," he said. "If you up and quit, what's that going to say to them?"

Schrank froze, stunned. "What did you say?" he demanded, looking to his partner.

Krupke pressed on, determined. "Maybe a lot of them will get discouraged because of it," he said. "This is a tough neighborhood to work in. You've been here longer than most of us. And if you leave, maybe the rest will decide there's no point and start giving up too."

Schrank threw the files onto the bed and stood, his eyes flashing. "I've given over half of my life to the New York Police Department, and what have I ever got in return?" he snarled. "Obnoxious gangs driving me out of my mind, killing each other over slabs of asphalt! Headquarters breathing down my neck, telling me to try to understand! How do you understand something like that? How do you even begin to comprehend that a stupid piece of street is worth splattering some kid's guts all over the place?"

"I don't understand it any more than you do!" Krupke retorted. His own voice was rising to match Schrank's in volume. The patient in the next room banged on the wall for them to shut up.

"Then you should understand why enough is enough!" Schrank snapped. "I've put up with this for over twenty years. I can't do it anymore!"

"I'm fed up with it too," Krupke said. "Maybe I'll put in my resignation next!"

"Fine, go ahead. And just remember—I could have you kicked right off the force for the way you're acting with me right now!"

"But you can't, because you're not going to be part of the force anymore!" Krupke shot back. He turned, storming towards the door.

Schrank turned away, fuming as he glowered out the window. He had made his decision and it was final. He had never expected such a strong reaction from Krupke. Of everyone at the precinct, he had thought Krupke would understand the most why he had to get away. Instead, Krupke acted like Schrank was thoughtlessly and selfishly abandoning the other police.

And what angered Schrank the most was the nagging question—Was it true?

xxxx

Krupke was seeing red as he stormed out of the hospital. He barely even saw Anybodys against the lamppost, until she pushed away from it and ran after him.

"Sarge!" she called. "What's eating you?"

Krupke only glanced her way for a moment. "Don't pretend you're worried," he snapped. "I know you're not, except maybe for what'll happen with you and your friends."

Anybodys was undaunted. "Aww, Sarge, you don't think we care about poor Lieutenant Schrank?" she said, following him to the squad car.

He hauled open the door and all but threw himself inside. "No!" he shot back. "Unless you think one of you guys will get charged for shooting him. Well, I'll tell you something. We're going to find out who did it. And he won't get away with it, not for one second."

"Something must've gone wrong," Anybodys said, sticking her thumbs through her belt loops. "Ain't Schrank gonna be okay?"

Krupke started the engine. "I thought so," he said. Without explaining that remark he backed up and then out, driving around Anybodys and continuing down the street. She was left to stare after him.


	4. Part 4: How to save a life

**Notes: This has been an interesting experience. This story is more like a series of connected vignettes. Otherwise, some things would have probably been explored in more detail. It was originally intended to be a long oneshot, but I realized that would not work for this piece and I split it up and expanded each part. Thanks to everyone who has been interested!**

**Part Four**

Krupke did not come around for the rest of the day, or the next.

Schrank leaned on the windowsill with one arm, staring out the glass. Whether he would admit it or not, it was lonely without Krupke dropping in. There were just doctors and nurses and therapists, people he was just getting tired of seeing. He wanted out; he wanted to go home. Maybe his place wasn't much, but it was still home, and ten times better than here.

Soon after he had first regained consciousness, one of the nurses had nosily asked him if there was a woman worried about him somewhere. He had flatly told her No. She had persisted, thinking maybe there was someone he was having an on-again off-again romance with, but he had continued to deny it.

There really wasn't anyone. He had loved before; it had never worked out. And since then, there had been too many other, more important things to worry about than love. It had no place in his life now.

A couple of officers at the precinct had jokingly asked him if he even believed in love. He had retorted that if it decided to believe in him, maybe he would give it another chance.

He believed that it existed, he supposed; some people certainly seemed to withstand the turmoil of life and stay together. They were either extraordinarily lucky or they knew some secret that the increasing majority of the population did not. He was one of those who did not.

Police work had been his life for years. Krupke had a point, really; what would he do if he quit? What other line of work could he find?

He did not want to stay on just for that reason. He was at the end of his rope. How could he expect that he could keep doing a job that ate a little more of his soul each day? How could Krupke expect that of him?

He swore under his breath. There was too much time to think about their argument. And when he thought it was out of his mind, the casefiles on the nightstand, or even the most initially unrelated thought processes, reminded him again.

Grudgingly, he finally had to admit that Krupke had other points. Everyone was sick of the gang wars; Schrank was not the only one. He felt that he had reached his breaking point, but was he supposed to keep on anyway? Was he supposed to try to find some purpose, some reason to stay on the force? He could not find the answer.

The door opened, admitting that same curious nurse. "Well," she greeted, "it's good to see you up and around. You're making progress."

"As long I'm still stuck here, it's not progress enough," Schrank grumbled.

"Oh now, we're not that bad here, are we?" she said.

Without waiting for an answer she straightened the bed and went on, "Your partner hasn't been by today either, has he? Really, that was a terrible argument the two of you had yesterday. The patients all over this floor were complaining."

"Too bad for them," Schrank said. He glanced at her. "You already know everything that's going on. Why ask me if Krupke's been here or not?"

She wagged a finger at him. "I'm just making friendly conversation, Lieutenant."

"I can have a friendlier conversation with a street gang," Schrank said.

She straightened. "I'd ask if your manners aren't suffering from your injuries, but I've heard you're quite a character," she said with a smirk that clearly displayed her enjoyment of annoying him.

Schrank grunted. "Are you done?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "unless I should check your temperature." She touched his forehead. "You feel a little warm, Lieutenant."

He walked past her. "I'm fine," he said.

Actually, he was more polite with the rest of the hospital staff. But this particular nurse got on his nerves—and she knew it and delighted in it. He had enough stress to deal with from the hooligans. He did not need to be given more by her.

Right now he also had this argument with Krupke weighing on his mind. He had thought Krupke would come back within a couple of hours. When that had not come to pass, he had thought for sure it would be during the day that had just ended. Now he was wondering if Krupke would come back at all. He had never seen his partner so upset.

He was a prideful person, but over the last few hours he had been wearing down. If Krupke continued to stay away, Schrank just might end up calling him with the intent to apologize. Anyway, by this point he was so conflicted over his decision to quit that he could no longer say he was going to go through with it.

When he finally thought to look around the room again, the nurse was gone. He sank onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. If she had said anything to him upon leaving, he had not heard her. Which was fine with him.

xxxx

Krupke was also conflicted. He had spent the rest of yesterday and part of today in a sour mood, surprising the rest of the precinct. But at last he had started to calm down—and now he was aghast at himself.

What right did he have to yell at Lieutenant Schrank like that? He did not know how deeply the gang problem had scarred the other man's soul. Maybe Schrank really could not take anymore. How could Krupke judge Schrank for feeling he had to quit?

A tap on the shoulder startled him out of his mind. He whirled around, his eyes wide.

"Sarge, are you okay?" Officer Keaton asked, clearly concerned. "You've been spaced out ever since you got in today. And yesterday you were grouchier than I've ever seen you."

Krupke sighed, pushing his hat back on his head. "I'm okay," he said.

Keaton sat down in a nearby chair. "Is it about the Lieutenant?" he wondered. "I thought Captain Black said he was getting better. He seemed alright when Bradley and I went to see him."

Krupke shrugged. "He's getting better, I guess." He could not bear to tell the kid what Schrank had told him. Anyway, it was not his place. Schrank would notify the Captain when he was ready.

Keaton was still unconvinced. "You guess?" He frowned. "Did something happen, Sarge?"

"No!" Krupke grunted, much too defensive. He turned away, pulling out his desk calendar. "What would've happened?"

"I can't imagine," Keaton said. "I really can't. But Sarge, if you know something and you're not saying, is it something we need to know?"

"I'd tell you if it was, wouldn't I?" Krupke said.

Keaton rocked back. "Yeah," he consented. "Yeah, of course. I'm sorry, Sarge." He stood. "Well, I hope both of you are going to be okay."

Krupke looked up at him in surprise. "Me? The Lieutenant was the one who got shot."

Keaton nodded. "And I guess it's not always easy to remember that other people are hurting too," he said. "But I know you've had it rough, worrying about Lieutenant Schrank and trying to catch the shooter and all that."

Krupke averted his gaze. "It's nothing when you think about what Lieutenant Schrank's been through," he said.

"Maybe," Keaton said. "But I don't know; everyone has their own trials, I guess." He turned to leave, walking up the corridor.

Krupke stared after him. He was surprised, and yet in another way, maybe he wasn't. Officer Keaton had shown concern towards him from the beginning. Officer Bradley, by contrast, had been more like Krupke himself—concerned solely with the Lieutenant and not thinking about how Krupke might be hurting.

He smiled a bit. It was kind of nice that someone had noticed him too.

He got up. He was not going to have any peace with himself until he settled this latest problem. If Schrank would see him, he had to apologize.

xxxx

Anybodys was lurking around the hospital property when Krupke arrived. He glared in her direction but otherwise ignored her as he headed up the steps and inside the building. The Jets were going to keep nosing around until they were sure that they would not be blamed for what had happened. Then they would back off and not care anymore.

In spite of what Schrank said whenever he completely lost his temper, all he really wanted was to stop the Jets and the other gangs from making terrible, irreversible mistakes. They, of course, did not see it that way; at best they probably saw Schrank as someone interfering with their fun and their precious streets—at worst, a rotten cop who deserved whatever was done to him. As far as Krupke was concerned, if not for that concern of being wrongly accused, they would have all likely wanted to dance on Schrank's grave had he died.

Krupke might not be embittered as Schrank was, but he was definitely not fond of the gangs himself. Sometimes he wondered if they were not hard enough on the kids. They had tried being kind, they had tried making threats, but nothing worked. Schrank had said they were an immovable mountain—they always banded together on everything and would not be shaken. Even more innocent ones like Baby John did not want to betray their gangs and refused to crack.

Everything was quiet in the hospital when Krupke walked into the lobby and down the hall. With night coming on, most patients were dozing off to sleep. The light was on in Schrank's room, however. Krupke knocked on the door.

"Come in," an exhausted voice answered.

The last thing Krupke expected to see when he pushed the door open was Lieutenant Schrank leaning against the wall with his right arm, haggard and weary. When he caught sight of Krupke a brief flicker went through his eyes. "I was starting to think I'd never see you back here," he said.

Krupke stepped inside, letting the door shut behind him. ". . . I'm sorry, Lieutenant," he said. "I don't know what got into me. I should never have exploded like that."

Schrank shrugged noncommittally. "You had a point," he said. "Maybe I am just being selfish. I'm sorry too. I'm not going to try to have you bounced off the force."

"I didn't think you meant it," Krupke said. "But you had a point too. I don't whether you're being selfish or not." He hesitated. "I know I was."

Schrank stared. "What are you talking about?"

Krupke glanced away. "I've been worried about you ever since this started," he confessed. "For a while there, no one even knew if you were going to make it. When you woke up I thought it meant you were going to be okay. But then you sprung that news on me that you were quitting, and . . . I don't know, I realized you must be hurt more than I'd even thought. So I worried more."

Now a frown crossed Schrank's features. "This hit you a lot harder than I knew," he said. "I realized you were upset, but . . ."

Krupke shrugged. "I wasn't going to say anything," he said. "And then somehow it . . . it just all came out."

Finally he looked back to Schrank. "I've been thinking about it ever since you brought it up," he said. "I don't want you to leave."

Schrank blinked in surprise. Then understanding flashed in his eyes. "When you were going on about the others looking up to me, you really meant . . ."

"I meant me." Krupke sighed and looked away again, awkward. "The others do too, but I was thinking about me."

Schrank shook his head. "I had no idea."

Krupke looked back. "Even though I don't want you to leave . . . if you really feel like you can't handle it anymore, then you shouldn't stay," he said.

"I thought I knew what I was going to do," Schrank said. "I don't anymore. Maybe I'll leave. Maybe I won't."

"I'll respect whatever you come up with," Krupke said.

Schrank looked to him, for a moment not speaking. ". . . Thanks," he said at last.

xxxx

Things went back to some semblance of normalcy over the next couple of days. The physical therapy sessions were going well; Schrank was finally starting to be able to move his left arm without too much pain. And he was demanding to be released. The doctors at last agreed—provided he had someone who could drive him in each day.

Krupke was more than happy to say he would do it. It was a relief to see that Schrank was showing such improvements.

And maybe, he hoped, Schrank was starting to feel better about other things too. He had said nothing more about leaving, nor did Krupke. But he did not seem as actively upset as he had before.

It was that night, when Schrank was getting ready to leave the hospital, that Krupke arrived with surprising news. He himself was still reeling.

"We got the kid who shot you," he said after exchanging greetings with Schrank.

Schrank started to attention, stunned. "You did? How?" he demanded.

"He turned himself in," Krupke said. "You know, we checked his house more than once, but he always managed to not be home. A lot of them were that way, though, so I couldn't even say it meant anything for that one."

Schrank was barely listening to that part. "He _turned himself in?_" he echoed in utter disbelief.

Krupke nodded. "Yeah." He paused. ". . . And he's out in the hall," he reported. "He wants to talk to you."

Schrank was suddenly not sure what was more shocking. He fell back, turning to face the door.

"Are you gonna talk to him?" Krupke asked.

"Let him in," Schrank said with a resigned, _what are we in for now?_ gesture.

Krupke opened the door. Another officer escorted a nervous fifteen-year-old into the room. He twisted a faded baseball cap in his hands.

"What's your name?" Schrank asked, gruff.

"Will, sir. Will Monroe," was the reply. "Lieutenant, sir . . . I'm sorry about what . . . what I did." He looked down, staring, guilt-ridden, at the floor. "I wasn't even really thinking. When I heard your voice, Lieutenant, I just turned and fired without a second thought. And then I . . . I was so upset that I ran and kept running. But I couldn't live with knowing what I'd done, so I . . . finally came to Sergeant Krupke and turned myself in."

"What are you going to do when the ruckus from this settles down?" Schrank asked, his expression and tone betraying none of what he was thinking.

A shrug. "I don't know," Will said. "But I'm not going to go back to the gang. I can tell you that right now, sir. I can see now how stupid I was for going along with them in the first place."

"Uh huh." Schrank peered at him. "So what are you saying? That shooting me down made you realize Krupke and I'd been right all along?"

Will looked up, shamed. "Yes, sir."

Schrank sighed, weary. "Will you stick with that?"

"I will, sir!" Will exclaimed. "I'm going to try to get the other guys to listen, too." He backed towards the door.

"If you have better luck than we did, it'll be a miracle," Schrank said dryly. "Go on, get going."

Will nodded. ". . . I wish I'd listened before, when you and Sergeant Krupke were talking about what would happen if we stayed in the gang," he said. "Goodbye, sir. I hope you get better soon." He backed up without turning, as though he did not want to face away from the man he had shot. The officer opened the door and Will scurried into the hall with him, letting the door shut behind them.

Schrank turned away, shaking his head. "You know, it's like I've been saying," he said. "There's nothing anybody can do to get through to these blockhead hooligans. It doesn't matter what I say, or you, or their parents. We can talk till we're blue in the face and we won't make a dent. But when they go out and shoot each other down, suddenly they realize maybe we're not just clueless old people after all."

"It looks that way," Krupke admitted.

"Crazy kids." Schrank glanced to the window without really seeing anything out of it. "What kind of world is this, when violence is the only thing that gets through their thick skulls? I used to think I was wrong about that being the case. Instead I've learned all the more that it's true."

Krupke shifted. "Are you . . . still planning to quit?" he ventured at last. It might still be a touchy subject, but Krupke hoped that since Schrank had started talking about something directly related it would be alright to bring it up.

Schrank did not seem surprised. He raised one hand in a weary half-shrug. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "The last thing I want those punks to think is that they've finally worn me down all the way. One of the worst things you can do is make them think they've won."

His manner was definitely different than before, when they had fought. Once again he was resigned and tired instead of fiery. Was that a good sign?

His eyes narrowed. "You know what's really at the heart of what's bothering me?" Krupke shook his head. "I figured it out. It's not the gangs or the vain searches or even the rumbles—it's that I couldn't save myself. I've got nowhere with the gangs; none of them will give me the time of day. But I thought I could at least protect myself from them.

"I had my gun right in my hand that night, in case I'd end up needing to use it. But that kid turned and fired before I even had time to react."

Krupke was silent, stunned by Schrank's admission. He turned it over in his mind, thinking on what he could say in reply.

"I've felt the same," he said. "I've been beating myself up because I wasn't able to see what was coming in time to do something about it. And I think . . . that may have been what really set me off the other day."

Schrank looked to him in shock. "There was nothing you could've done," he said.

"I know. And you couldn't have, either. Sometimes that's how it is—you really can't do anything," Krupke said. "There's other police who've been shot down like that. It's not that they did anything wrong or that they could've stopped it at all; it's just one of those things."

"Yeah, but I thought it wouldn't happen to me," Schrank grumbled. "I thought I was prepared. I just wasn't prepared for failing in one more way." He stared out at the glittering Manhattan night. "I've felt like a terrible cop for years. This was just kind of the last straw. If it hadn't been for that, I probably wouldn't have decided I really would quit."

"You're not a terrible cop," Krupke declared. "You've kept going when things are rough. I've heard some of the officers say they wonder how you do it. I've wondered too."

"Join the club," Schrank said wryly. "I wonder myself." He hesitated, going through one last debate with himself. But, he realized, he had already made his decision. And this time he would not be changing his mind again. ". . . However I do it, it looks like I'll still be going at it for a while yet."

Krupke looked at him in happy amazement. "You're staying?" He had hoped for that conclusion, and even though he had started to think it more and more likely over the past days, it was still a joyous surprise now.

Schrank nodded. "Yeah, I'm staying. The precinct is stuck with me."

He was healing, emotionally now as well as physically.

xxxx

Anybodys was leaning on the lamppost just outside the hospital when Krupke walked out to bring the car around. She pushed away from it, moseying over to greet him. "Hey, Sarge!" she chirped. "You got the guy, didn't you? I saw Officer Bentley bringing him out."

"Yeah, we got him," Krupke said. At the moment, he wasn't even frustrated to see her. "And lucky for you, he said the Jets didn't know anything about him."

"Of course we didn't!" Anybodys said.

Krupke peered at her. "So if you know we got him, what're you doing still hanging around?" he frowned.

She shrugged. "I was just wondering, how's the Lieutenant today?"

"He's getting better," Krupke said. "And you'd better tell your friends to stay out of trouble, because he's coming back."

Anybodys grinned. "Good! Then things'll start going back to normal around here. It's about time."

Krupke had to agree with that. It was, indeed.


End file.
